The Heart
by planet p
Summary: Story repost! AU; formerly episode one of my virtual season eleven. Kyle/OC, Debbie/Cox
1. Chapter 1

**The Heart** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender _or any of its characters.

* * *

_1997_

The Canadian sunset was obscured by the tall pine forest surrounding the entire facility, which was a pity, Kyle thought. He would have rather the sunset than the claustrophobia of the enclosing forest, darkening now by the moment.

Nonetheless, when he turned and walked back toward the icy lights of ISIS, sharpening with menacing urgency in the falling darkness, and its large cluster of splinter buildings surrounding a central administrative hub, his mind was made up.

The starving young woman seated in cubicle four – Julieta, her nametag introduced, giving nothing away as to her inadequate, malnourished diet – regarded him as he stopped in front of her desk and asked to schedule an appointment with the facility's head, and, a moment later, nodding her head, her thin fingers – manicured nails gleaming like soft pastel pink knives – raced across the keyboard in the same way that the fingers of her co-workers in the reception cluster did.

Outside, the Canadian sunset died, to be reborn again another day.

* * *

The 14-year-old looked every bit as much of her mother as Kyle always imagined she would, and every bit her own person.

There were little things that reminded him of her father, her dark hair, the shape of her eyes, and little things that distinguished her apart from her mother in the most drastic way possible.

She'd inherited her father's expression, he knew; her long, dark hair only reminded him that her mother had never had long hair.

He supposed he'd loved her mother, in his own way, and he thought of the girl, often, as like his own. He had no children of his own, but Alinga had always been there to fill the gap.

He'd known her since she was born, though he'd left her at times, just as her mother had before him, and then her father. He'd stayed on the longest, but in the end, even he had left her too.

Now he was back.

* * *

Alinga slept in a bed in the Infirmary, surrounded by pink. He always thought of Alex whenever he saw something that was pink.

As he stood watching Alinga sleep, he thought of all that he'd shared with Alex, and the once that Alex had had enough and slapped him. Just the once.

It'd hurt, he thought, but it'd made him realise that maybe somewhere, even inside Alex, there was something still able to, if not empathise, to sympathise, and to feel anger for the right reasons. If there was that something still inside Alex, then there was no reason for it not to still be inside him, if he dug deep enough.

He was angry now, he realised. He was angry for Alinga, and for Alinga's mother, who was dead and couldn't be angry for herself – or for her daughter – anymore, and, surprisingly, it hadn't been an effort, it'd been a shallow grave, easily uncovered.

He couldn't stand by anymore. Today, he'd had to act. And he had. He didn't expect gratitude; if he'd believed in Hell, he knew that that was where he'd go when his time on this earth ended.

* * *

He'd been assigned a residence off the East Splinter, almost like a real house in a real suburb. It had a sealed road, and a fence; even a small backyard with a washing line.

The day Alinga was discharged from the Infirmary, he was particularly eager to show her the backyard. He pretended not to notice how even that tired her.

She'd been part of a team assigned to infiltrate the enemy's barracks and acquire their 'special' personnel. Her task, specifically, had been to target Healers, and she'd been exemplary at her job, even as a 9-year-old. To facilitate her mission, she'd been injected with a particular serum which was harmful to Healers when they attempted to utilise their abilities upon her; weakening them in the beginning, and killing them if they persisted.

She'd had much success acquiring Healers for the Center this way – under whom ISIS operated, as an auxiliary – and her success had continued, until the day she'd slipped up.

She'd escaped with her life, but with not much else, and hardly a guarantee, even, of keeping that. Because of the serum's effects, she'd been prohibited from seeking Healer assistance; she'd been relegated to relying upon her body's natural healing abilities, and removed from active duty.

Recovering sooner than they'd anticipated, ISIS had made the decision that, though she was not yet fit for re-entry to Field, she was fit enough to bear a child, and the process of assigning her to a partner had begun.

It had taken convincing, but Kyle had been confident in his abilities, and they'd been there to back him up, just as he'd known they would.

Secretly, he was glad that neither Alex nor Jarod had ever been assigned to ISIS.

* * *

The child would be a female, Alinga told him, the day the pregnancy was confirmed. She asked him if he'd any names to suggest, and he lied and said that he had none. Alinga chose Silky, and Kyle couldn't think of a name that could possibly be more fitting.

There was no television in the house – What would have been the purpose? There was equally no reception – though Kyle had managed to bring in a radio that broadcast the same program of songs every night from 4 P.M. until 1 A.M. for the staff who lived outside of the facility's main accommodation sectors, as he and Alinga – and the unborn baby – did; every night, they listened to exactly the same songs, played in exactly the same order.

Every night, they sat together on the couch in the lounge of their almost normal house, and listened to the radio, and Alinga fell asleep, at around midnight, leant against his arm. He switched the radio off an hour later, and took her to bed.

* * *

_Story repost, because I thought it gave Kyle more of a human side though it's only AU._


	2. Chapter 2

_1998_

Alinga listened to the earth beneath her, lying upon the forest floor, ear pressed to the dark ground. On a road, many miles away, a vehicle passed, its radio playing. Alinga stood efficiently, in her forest glade, and danced.

At night, she dreamt of planes that swum the skies above; dreamt of herself as a little girl with her toy cars, and her one toy plane amongst the little diecast cars.

As a boy, her father had wanted to be a pilot, she knew. He'd told her off the engines, of the flight paths and patterns, of the international laws and treaties and 'air space,' of how the planes were constructed; the testing involved in maintaining their safety, and the safety of their parts and components, and she'd always listened.

She missed her father. They'd shared so much, like best friends, though her father hadn't been the same, exactly. She knew she had the advantage, for inheriting her mother's Mediator expression; her father had merely been an Empath, liable to misconstrue and misinterpret.

She could not help but feel she'd failed him, and that was the reason he'd left her. When he'd left, they'd made her change her name; she'd not been permitted to keep a name the enemy had given her – and her mother had been the enemy!

But that'd all been so long ago.

She danced round and round, her small feet moving across the stabbing pine needles, suffocating the way the pine needles suffocated the ground it rained upon, collecting, with wind, or the scurryings of little animals, into piles like little burial mounds.

She danced until she couldn't breathe; she'd inherited her mother's asthma, also.

Kyle always came then, and lifted her easily from the ground, pine needles falling from her clothes, from her skin, to the ground again. Like snow, she thought, like beautiful, silent snow, as cold as death. Kyle took her back to the house, where her inhaler, and baby, were waiting.

Her mother had been a carer in the Farm – an angel – but she wasn't her mother; sometimes, she thought that she wasn't even like her. She looked so much like her, yet she was nothing like her. Her mother had wanted to live; she was bound by no such compulsion.

Kyle did not ask her why she'd changed her name, nor did he address her by the nickname he'd once bestowed upon her, that which had once belonged solely to her father. She missed it; she missed the way she'd once cared for him. She'd loved him, as a child; in her heart, he'd been family, but now, she could not bring herself to love anything, let alone another living being, let alone herself.

She dreamt of planes, and of their snowflake-white cloud trails across a blue sky; she dreamt of green grass, kept neat amongst the orderly headstones of a cemetery. She'd have no name, merely a number assignation on a record somewhere, perhaps, not even upon paper, but endlessly roaming, confused, in the boundless, claustrophobic airless confines of digital/electronic hard drive space; her existence, her after life, nothing more than that number.

Kyle dreamed of a way to make it better for her; dreamt that she hated him. She wished she could tell him that she'd never be able to hate him, just as she'd never been able to hate her father for leaving his four-year-old daughter.

How could she hate him, when he loved her?

* * *

_2009_

Cannon ran through the corridors of SL-43 toward the elevators that would take him up, and to his masters, awoken from a dream.

The Oracle's fingers fumbled upon the buttons, and the elevator doors closed.

The child was alive! They would need to prepare.

Noah was alive!

* * *

Sydney switched through channels absently, his mind upon the night's previous discussions, rather than that which the hotel room television set showed him.

A Healer able to Heal without leaving a signature, able to be detected by other Healers… the mysterious appearance of the serum able to disable biomechanical components within the human body 27 years ago, its creation still unclaimed with any real plausibility…

He'd been invited to the conference by T-Corp themselves; he'd accepted without hesitation. Though T-Corp was the Center's largest, most successful rival, Sydney had had no trouble agreeing to attend; the Center and T-Corp had, for as long as he could remember, had a curious relationship.

They were the leaders in the industry which dealt with the anomaly which caused – or, more cautiously, allowed; enabled – Pretenders, and there'd always been a continuous exchange of technology and conceptual advances between them, albeit, more so via espionage than diplomacy and discussion, but, nonetheless, the link existed, connecting them, creating an inseparable quality, which their lesser, smaller rivals could only dream of.

Sydney, certainly, had long ago let go of a vast array of his hatred for the corporation. As a possessor of the anomaly, he realised that, like many others who possessed the same anomaly, he was merely trying to survive, any way that he could.

So, he'd chosen the Center rather than T-Corp? But, back then, he'd not known of T-Corp's existence. The majority of his early knowledge of the corporation, indeed, sprung for the discussions – arguments – he'd had with his fellow and rival mentor, William Raines.

In the end, he'd never been able to compete with what Raines had had, and still had. A beautiful young wife – a paediatric doctor in a prestigious position with the local base hospital – and daughter, a house in the suburbs, Med Space Director at 28, an intelligent, handsome young son, a challenging array of patients. Even when it'd all fallen apart – daughter kidnapped, wife dead, re-education recommended, incompetence – it'd been better than Sydney had had.

It was only lately that Sydney had began thinking that maybe he'd gotten the better deal of the two, after all. He had Michelle and Nicholas, as well as the friendship of Miss Parker and Broots, and various others; a spacious, comfortable inner-city apartment, prestige in his chosen field, and the satisfaction of knowing that whilst he continued to pursue Jarod, Jarod continued to evade the Center's clutches, very much alive, and of much sounder mind than any of Raines's 'patients' could ever be construed as, or as having been.

Yes, in retrospect, he'd been handed the better deal, he was certain.

He switched the television to a late night talk show and settled to watch it.

* * *

The Gathering Room was buzzing with excitement and dispute, its diverse range of occupants, Empaths, Oracles, mentors and various other staff members occupied with Cannon's claim.

Noah: Alive!

The thought, alone, was a preposterous one, and an incredible, exhilarating one.

The child – long thought to be Pretender by many branches outside of South Africa – and Class Nine Empath, if alive, would be an adult now, grown now, with an incalculable, astonishing stack of protocol overrides. To have survived the upgrade alone – when others, on average, lived for five years, and, at length, eight – was a ridiculous, wondrous thought. And to have survived for 45 years, a simply ungraspable prospect!

Noah's upgrade had been a prototype, designed and implemented before Noah himself had made the technology so much _more_ applicable.

Merely to have been able to screen the Empathy without inducing lethal negative feedback, let alone to process the psychic stream; to establish personality was… almost without words!

Noah had always had such potential, proven by the fact that, at fourteen months, he'd not only survived, but sustained and managed the prototype biomechanical colony with which he'd be implanted, and had then gone on to legitimise the technology, to give it practical application!

The loss of Noah had been as to the Center as the loss of Nash had been to T-Corp, maybe, even, more devastating!

It had been the Center's African branch who'd brought biomechanical tech to their world, which T-Corp had later gone on to 'rip off.' So far as the Center's African branch was concerned, T-Corp's Nash was nobody of significance.

Sure, he'd rebuilt T-Corp's ranks – the Center could have suffered without – he'd been a brilliant Healer, and, today, his daughter, almost single-handedly, held T-Corp together by faith alone, but he'd escaped, and he remained lost to the corporation who'd helped him to discover his destiny, to utilise his abilities. He'd left his home, cast them from his heart – Noah had had no choice in the matter, he'd been taken by force, and, as far as the Center had been concerned, up 'til today, he'd perished alone with his would-be 'rescuers,' no doubt Catherine Parker's idols, but dead nonetheless, as Catherine herself was.

In the end, it did not do to cross the Center.

The Chairman finally entered the Gathering Room, flanked by Tower Sweepers, to hear of the Oracle Cannon's revelation.

* * *

Standing in the airport lounge the following day – 12 P.M., as per one of the numerous wall clocks – Sydney laughed into the telephone by the wall, clock ticking away beside him. Africa was typically jumping to hysterical conclusions!

Though, somehow, Raines was troubled by the talk, Sydney could tell. What would this new, as yet unfounded prophecy, spell for Blue Cove?

Blue Cove was – rumoured – the Center Corporation's least liked American branch. Years ago, they'd been rumoured to have been scheduled for liquidation, and now, year by year, another year went by with no word as to Blue Cove's fate; it clearly left Raines uncertain and unsettled. What would become of him – of them _all_ – if Blue Cove was to be cut down, shut off?

What would the reacquisition of Noah – if he was proven, indeed, to have survived – do to the tentative balance established between the Center and T-Corp? To the Triumvirate (the governing body for all such groups operating under the industry's laws and standards in exchange for amnesty from their various governments and political regimes)?

And what of the prophecies?

Despite his bravado – it was nothing more than Africa's latest attempt to artificially elevate themselves, to stir interest in the other half of the world again – Sydney could not help but feel apprehensive, a cold, dark weight settling itself, out of the blue, upon him as he headed home, no longer pleased or excited, but worried, unsure of what to expect.

* * *

The word had, of course, spread.

Since its inception, there'd been no other choice, no other way for it to live but to expand, to spread!

Broots conveyed the word to Miss Parker and Lyle, having heard it from Sydney, and from various others during the day, in Tech Space, waiting for his latest computer search to come up with a possible lead on Jarod's whereabouts.

Miss Parker frowned, struggling to recall where she'd heard the name before, and Lyle laughed, smacking a hand to his forehead, seemingly genuinely amused.

Broots tested a tentative smile, and when no one yelled at him, decided to keep it, a few moments longer, at least.

Lyle turned on the spot and moved toward Broots's terminal to adjust the parameters of his search for Jarod, shaking his head. "They'd say anything for a bit of attention these days. You know what it'll be next. _E.T.?!_" He rested his head on the computer screen in effort to stop himself from laughing again.

Broots grinned; everybody always said that Raines believed that Africa had aliens, but was keeping them secret from the rest of the Center.

Miss Parker glanced at Broots, supremely annoyed.

Broots calmed himself hurriedly, and walked up to Miss Parker. "Ah, come on, Miss P, it's not serious." What he wanted to say was, 'Reston's only just been given Tower status, and now he's been instated as Lyle's doctor,' but he didn't; not with Miss Parker's current mood.

Lyle stilled suddenly, and Broots had barely glanced his way, when he collapsed to the floor. Broots's hand immediately went to Miss Parker's arm to stop her from moving forward, though she showed no such inclination, and he said hurriedly, "It's okay; he's epileptic," though, in reality, nothing about it was okay.

Miss Parker merely watched for signs of an epileptic fit, her eyes colouring with disappointment with each passing moment.

Broots frowned heavily, and removed his hand from her arm, moving forward cautiously. He noticed the blood nose, but didn't really know what to make of it, so pushed it to the back of his mind. "Is it your blood sugar levels?" he asked cautiously, ready to dial Cox's extension if need be.

"Dizzy," Lyle said quietly, more to himself than Broots, and pushed himself into a sitting postion, wiping his nose on the back of his fingers.

"Should I call Cox?" Broots asked uncertainly.

Miss Parker crossed her arms, annoyed by what she saw as Broots's false concern, grossly, unskilfully overdone.

Lyle smiled, directing his gaze to Broots's face. "A hand, Ezra?"

_That_ was Broots's first name!

Broots offered his hand without hesitation.

"Sydney's back," Lyle told them, when he'd regained his feet, and turned his gaze to Heathrow Lounge, where Sydney was pouring himself a coffee from the pot on the hotplate. "This should be _exciting_! Oh, those poor, deluded _bad_ T-Corps!"

Unimpressed, Miss Parker stalked past the two, toward the automatic frosted glass doors, windows of unfrosted glass peeking through into Heathrow Lounge at strange, uneven intervals that, more than likely, had some mathematical, computational counterpart.

* * *

"How was the talk?" Miss Parker asked Sydney, the automatic doors closing after her.

"Interesting," Sydney answered, leaving his coffee for a moment. "How is the search?"

Miss Parker stifled a snort, and scowled. "Useless."

"Give it time," Sydney assured her. "Broots can be brilliant, when the inclination takes him."

Miss Parker allowed a small smile to touch her mouth.

By the automatic doors, Lyle screamed, dropping to the floor.

Miss Parker's head turned wildly.

Broots fell to the floor beside Lyle, staring unshakably at nothing in front of him.

Lyle frowned, confused, for a moment, then, as though denying an accusation. He started crying, blood running into his mouth from his nose, and onto the floor from his hand.

Broots put a hand on his arm carefully.

Lyle put his head on Broots's shoulder and cried harder.

A tech jumped out of their seat and shot out of their cubicle, headed for the First Aid kit across the room, beside the door to the photocopier room. "You shouldn't have let him in; he's banned," the tech hissed, returning from the other side of the room. "He's getting the carpet bloody."

Broots ignored the snippy comment.

* * *

"This has to stop, Lyle," Reston told Lyle, securing the bandage around the sutured cut in his hand. "You _know_ you're sick. It's time you started taking responsibility for your condition, don't you think?"

Lyle rolled his eyes. "That's _exactly_ what the mainstream medical discipline _doesn't_ want," he muttered. "_People_ taking responsibility for _their health_!" He laughed. "Wake up to the fact! Western medicine isn't about 'curing the ailing,' it's about making money, by any means possible! If it hurts, it _could be worse_; if it doesn't feel right: Are you the one with the _fucking medical degree_? If you're dying, there's money to be made; if you're dead, there's money there, too: Remind me again, what was that quote? How much is your house worth on the open market again?" Lyle narrowed his eyes at his doctor. "The World Health Organisation-"

"Be still," Reston replied, producing a syringe.

Lyle jerked away from him.

"It's okay," Reston told him. "It's a mild sedative, that's all. It shouldn't cause complications with your medication, or your allergy."

Lyle made a face.

"All finished," Reston said, clapping him on the arm.

Lyle turned his gaze toward the door and slipped off the examination table which he'd been sitting on. "I don't like you," he told the new Tower doctor plainly on his way out of the room.

* * *

The slightly pudgy, almond-eyed 11-year-old stood unmoving beside the Tower official named Mark. The blue-eyed girl was dark-haired, sporting a grubby tan, spotted with angry, red raised patches of acne.

Miss Parker had the horrible feeling that she was in some capacity mentally disabled.

The girl's name was Silky, Sydney was informed by Mark. Silky would be Sydney's newest patient, when he was not working 'outside.'

The Center was undecided, in Silky's case, as to her expression. Tests confirmed the presence of the anomaly, and she had both Pretender and Empath in her background, the Center's problem was that they weren't sure which she was, or, if, perhaps she was both, though it was rare. They were willing to invest further effort to investigate, however.

Miss Parker felt sick and wished she could have left the room, though, she'd been asked to accompany Sydney for a reason, and she'd have to remain until she was informed of this reason.

Miss Parker's role, it was revealed, minutes later, was to act as the girl's friend. Silky had never had a friend before, and she'd be pleased to have a girl friend, the Center was sure.

Miss Parker felt sicker.

* * *

Lyle was sitting on the sideboard beside the refrigerator, when Miss Parker walked into the coffee room, eating a biscuit out of the plastic container.

Sydney had stayed on to talk with Mark after the conclusion of the meeting; Miss Parker hadn't.

Lyle held the plastic container out to her.

She made a face, and walked to the fridge to pour herself a glass of chilled water.

Lyle replaced the container on the sideboard beside him.

Miss Parker noticed that he was using his left hand; he'd cut his right hand. She tried to remember when he'd had the time to cut his hand; it didn't matter, in the end. He'd gone to the photocopier room to pick up a printout for Broots when she'd left, she remembered. Maybe he'd cut his hand then.

She didn't see what he'd have to cut his hand on, though. Unless it hadn't been an accident, of course.

"Cutting yourself doesn't help," she told the inside of the fridge.

"Are you delusional?" Lyle asked her.

Miss Parker scowled inwardly, anger mounting inside her. "No," she replied, careful not to betray her anger. She turned away from the fridge in time to see her twin shrug, as though to say, 'How do you know, then?' Her anger rose uncomfortably, obliterating her earlier feeling of ill.

Lyle took another biscuit out of the container.

Miss Parker wondered who'd made them, they didn't look like the typical store-bought packet variety. She made a face; he was getting crumbs on himself.

* * *

"You know, the World Health Organisation thinks that Chinese medicine's the way to go," Lyle told her, watching her from across the room as she read over the various, interesting notices on the Notice Board. "You've an opinion on the matter, I'd fairly hazard a guess?"

Miss Parker rolled her eyes and turned swiftly to face him. "I do?"

Lyle nodded. "I mean, you did want to be a nurse; Dad didn't want you to be."

Miss Parker turned on her heel and left the room. _Bastard!_

_

* * *

_

**The Heart** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender _or any of its characters.


	3. Chapter 3

Maisie Hoon sat in the ambulance as her the deep gash in her hand was being sutured by a paramedic, going over her version of events with the police officer who'd been first to the scene.

The early evening was cool, and she found herself shivering, though, not entirely from the chill of impending nightfall. If that crazy man hadn't had a cardiac arrest when he had, she'd have been dead now.

She couldn't understand what she'd done wrong; why he'd wanted to kill her. She'd been so scared, she'd thought she was going to die.

* * *

Welford Lake strode through the dismally lit corridors of the city morgue, his junior partner, Kale Bergen keeping time beside him in his shiny black office shoes, unequipped for fieldwork.

The temperature dropped when they stepped out of the corridor, into the autopsy room. Kale's eyes strayed to the cold drawers, in which bodies were kept cold.

ME Diane La waved them over and allowed herself a frown as she began to explain that the man had not, in fact, died of, in layman's terms, a heart attack; far from, he'd died of an aneurism in his brain, a blood vessel bursting, simply.

She doubted he'd have felt much of anything; death had likely been instantaneous. It just went to show that even perfectly healthy people could fall prey to unexpected circumstance at any time, even death.

Welford nodded solemnly.

* * *

Leaving late from work, Lyle took the elevator up from his office in Sweeper Space, then walked to the undercover parking lot where he'd parked his car earlier in the day, passing his Center ID over the scanner on his way out.

Up 'til an hour ago, Broots had been working late to iron out a minor problem with the system, and Lyle had stayed behind to assist, and to keep him company, but Broots had had to leave when he received a call from his daughter, Debbie, informing him that his house had been broken into by a pair of youths, and that the police were asking to speak with him over the matter.

Broots had left, unhappy.

A few years ago, nobody would have dared break into the houses on the street were he lived; it'd still been a reasonably safe district in which to raise a family.

Isla Grant played over the speaker system from Bay FM, and Lyle thought of the ocean, so close by outside. If he listened carefully, he might even be able to hear it from here.

He turned about and decided that he'd parked his car in the opposite direction and headed off in that direction, the lights flickering jarringly overhead.

Tazu hurried toward him, appearing from behind a pilar, and wrapped her slim arms around him in a hug. "Thank you," she told him quietly, oblivious to the sparkle of tears in his eyes.

He closed his eyes and hugged her back. She'd leave this place now, he knew. This was the last time he'd see her. He tried to think of something to say to her, an appropriate farewell, but by the time the words had come to him, she'd already gone.

Outside, the ocean roared, and over the speakers, Bay FM was now playing Lady Gaga.

Lyle tried to be happy. That part his life had ended, now. He should be happy, shouldn't he? Yet, he couldn't be happy. He'd promised himself, long ago, that that would never happen again.

He felt sick. Oh God, it was all coming undone now, wasn't it?

Miss Parker would soon discover his deception; soon discover that he wasn't her brother.

* * *

The television wasn't working when he wanted to watch it, and he felt sicker than ever. He switched the television off and went to bed. He felt so sick.

* * *

Jarod burst into laughter at Donna's joke, and that was when he realised that he liked her, and she liked him.

He stopped laughing and set his mind to the task of wiping down the table; Donna left to take an order on Drive-Thru.

He watched her walk away, and finally managed to push down the smile tugging at his mouth. He suddenly felt unsure.

* * *

Sydney sat up in bed, too hot. Beside him, Michelle continued to sleep. He listened into the dark for a couple of moments, but everything was as it should be.

He got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. Why did he feel so hot? Was he coming down with a cold? Or was it something else, something that had to do with the conference he'd attended just yesterday? He felt a cold stab of fear in his chest.

His hands shook as he searched from the light switch, finally finding it and switching on the light. The overbright light only made him feel hotter, and sicker.

He stumbled into the bathroom, and felt his hold on his footing failing, his legs suddenly weak. In a hot flash, as suddenly as it had come, the hotness departed.

He rushed to the bathroom basin to be sick, shaking all over.

* * *

Lyle turned over in bed and whimpered. His head hurt too much. He was so, so hot. The darkened room turned black, only to blink back into sight moments later.

Lyle hugged himself with shaking arms. Sydney remembered.

He sat up shakily, freezing cold. When they came, when they found out, they'd find out about Reagan, too; they'd find out about Miss Parker.

* * *

Broots sat at his kitchen table, tired and worn. Across the table from him, his 22-year-old daughter, Debbie, and her fiancé, JR Cox, sat watching him.

So, the kids hadn't stolen anything, from what he could see, Broots reported in relief.

Debbie patted his hand reassuringly. Her cell phone began playing _The Boy Is Mine_. She slid it open. "Broots." She nodded precisely. "I'll be there, darlin'," she replied reassuringly. She stood quickly and nodded to her father first, then to Cox. "Don't follow me," she told them, and turned and walked out.

* * *

The stereo was turned up loud in the lounge room. In the kitchen, Debbie passed the mug of hot coffee across the table to Lyle, and turned back to the sideboard and picked up her own mug. "What if we looked at it from the point of view that it's for the best? It was bound to happen, and it was a mistake when he forgot. Isn't this better?"

"The more people who know, the more dangerous it is," Lyle told the table, shivering.

"Where's the danger?" Debbie asked, sipping her coffee.

"I want you to leave Blue Cove, Johnny," Lyle told her, looking up from the table.

Debbie shook her head suddenly, stepping toward the table. "No," she said flatly.

"There's others coming, Johnny. Others who will know."

Debbie shook her head. "Empaths?"

"Empaths," Lyle confirmed.

Debbie shrugged. "So? Why are they coming here? And even if they do, of what interest am I to them?"

"They're good."

Debbie laughed. "So what? You're better."

Lyle made a face, pained.

Debbie's eyes widened. "What?" she demanded loudly.

"Debbie, please-"

Debbie shook her head hotly. "NO!" she shouted. "I need you! I love you!" She stomped her foot heavily. "Send them back!"

"I can't."

Debbie stormed out of the room, fighting back tears, and marched back in with his laptop.

Lyle shook his head; there was nothing he could do now, he'd done all he could.

Debbie slapped him and the tears jerked from her eyes. "You can't leave me!" she hollered, shaking her head, eyes wide.

Lyle took her hand. "I promise I'll do my very best to keep you safe," he told her levelly. "Won't you please leave?"

Debbie shook her head mutely, tears continuing to pour down her face.

"I made a mistake, that's all."

Debbie whined. It wasn't his fault!

Lyle stood and pulled her into his arms. He didn't say that it was his fault; he knew it was so. He'd slipped up, and he'd brought the world crashing down on everyone and everything he held dear.

Things would get very bad now, he knew.

* * *

Dolphy twisted the silver puppy dog ring on the little finger of her left hand. From the other room, she could hear her best friend, Debbie, moving about, packing things into bags and boxes.

They were leaving town tonight.

At home, Cox was getting ready to leave too. He'd have stayed, but he'd received a transfer to Maryland, effective immediately. He was to be in Maryland by 3 P.M. the following day.

Dolphy twisted her ring and watched the hour tick over on the waterfall clock on the dark blue wall. Today.

In the other room, Debbie did her best to hold her tears in check. She'd have to explain to Jules later; she'd promised.

She prayed Miss Parker would have mercy and shoot her brother dead before they took him back to that place.

From the other room, she heard the smashing sound of Dolphy dropping what she'd been holding.

She remained focussed on her task. They didn't have much time.

* * *

The long drive to the airport was silent. Debbie drove whilst Dolphy slept.

Debbie thought of the moment she'd be reunited with Jules; they'd sit together in the airport lounge, sipping coffees, or reading some trashy magazine.

Dolphy would maintain her end of the bargain as she'd promised; she wouldn't try to interfere. She wouldn't use her ability to re-establish their connection, she'd let it pass, and eventually it would die. She'd keep safe, and she'd keep Debbie safe.

When the time came, she'd find her brother, and keep him safe too.

By the time the African branch's Chairman arrived, Reagan would be in Alabama.

Life went on.

* * *

In the morning, Miss Parker charged out of the elevator, toward the Acting Chairman's office. She should have been informed of Reagan's transfer and impending departure. She was his sister!

She should have had a say in the decision!

The Acting Chairman wasn't taking appointments, the head of three teams of Tower Sweepers informed her.

She turned and headed back to the elevators, fuming; the sound of Reagan's mentor, Merchant's loud voice at her back. _Kick their asses, girl!_ Miss Parker thought as she pressed the button to take her back to the level on which she kept her office, then changed her mind and hit the button for SL-5.

* * *

Debbie had taken a flight to Maryland, Broots told her from his computer chair. She'd received an offer from a hospital in Maryland, and she'd taken it.

Miss Parker glared at him. He might have thought to inform her of this earlier, she scowled inwardly, and slid open her cell phone at its sharp beep, revealing a message from Debbie. She scowled and turned away from Broots's cubicle to ring Debbie back, before she realised that Debbie was probably on her flight by now, and ended the call.

Her cell phone rang a moment later. Sydney wanted her down in the SIM lab, Silky would arrive soon.

She marched out of Tech Space.

* * *

Silky's dark hair was lank and oily; her acne shone brilliant red under the lab's artificial lighting.

Miss Parker stifled a sigh and sat down beside the girl.

* * *

Fulton, Blue Cove's resident ME, brought a hand up to cover her mouth. Raines had just told her that Cox was gone, and she'd been appointed as Blue Cove's new Deputy Director of Med Space! She thought that she might faint.

Cherry and Plum kept their expressions neutral, though Fulton knew that they were unhappy. They hadn't wanted to be assigned to her, but they were the Deputy's nurses, and she was the new Deputy.

Fulton lowered the hand from her mouth. "What happened to Cox?" she asked, fighting down the excitement from her voice. "He was doing-"

"Transferred," Raines replied shortly, and turned about and walked out of her office.

Cherry and Plum stepped closer together, knowing that they would not be able to leave with him.

Fulton touched the chain of the dog tags that she wore.

* * *

Debbie stepped off the aeroplane, relieved that the flight was over, and she was out of that claustrophobic space. She wasn't usually claustrophobic, but recent events had changed her mind on certain matters.

She turned and paused, waiting for Jules to catch her up.

Beside her, Dolphy reached out and touched her hand, her face pale despite her naturally tanned complexion.

Along the corridor, Cox couldn't help feeling sick. So, he was coming back to the state he'd lived in for so long, the state which had taken his baby sister from him, and allowed his adoptive father to get away with her murder, and them condemn him for the act.

He needed a vanilla coffee, as soon as possible.

* * *

Dolphy sat opposite Debbie and Cox at the airport café's little table, twisting the ring on her finger under the table, her mug of coffee cooling slowly on the table in front of her.

Debbie took her cell phone out of her handbag and dialled Miss Parker's cell number.

* * *

_1998_

They'd taken the child, assigned her to a branch out of the country. There was only one thing left to do, Kyle reflected, as he made his way up the path toward the front door of his house.

He closed the front door after him, the sounds of Alinga's crying clear from the lounge room where he found her lying on the couch.

He walked to the windows and drew the curtain, before turning back to the couch and taking out his gun.

Alinga continued to sob on the couch.

Kyle strode over and grabbed her arm, yanking her first into a sitting position, then, to her feet.

She took no notice of the gun in his hand; maybe, she was glad that he was going to end it.

His eyes rested for a brief moment on the silver ring she wore on her left hand, beside her little finger – on assignment out of ISIS, he'd seen it in a store and thought that she'd like it's playful puppy dog motif – then he took her hand and pushed the gun into it, thinking as hard as he could on what she must do, and stepped up close to the fiercely shaking teenager, so that the gun was pressed to his chest.

She'd know what to do, she was one of the best Empaths he'd ever known.

Alinga's tears slid down her face and fell onto the tiny patch of space between them, soaking into the carpet. Her body shaking, but her hands suddenly deadly still, she lowered the gun to his leg and shot him twice.

* * *

**The Heart** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender _or any of its characters.


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